First Time for Everything
by EtherDoc
Summary: New Chapter! Molly didn't know what to think of Sherlock until she started looking for the truths behind his mask. She let him hide behind his words, but she knew they were lies.
1. Chapter 1

The first time Molly met Sherlock he was hands deep in her corpse. She'd left for the loo five minutes before, just long enough for Mr. Tall-dark-and-handsome to slap on a pair of nitrile gloves and dig through the cavity she'd excised.

"What are you doing?"

It was a statement that required a disapproving tone and some force. She managed neither. She sounded rather timid considering she was the best pathologist at Bart's and completely in her right to be offended at his intrusion.

Then he flashed those blue eyes at her and they deep and dark and full of intelligence. There was no guilt or remorse in that glance. It was cold and calculating. Those chiseled lips turned up into a smile. It didn't reach his eyes but it still had it's intended affect. Her knees went weak.

"Sherlock Holmes. Anderson sent me," he lied smoothly.

Molly glanced down at his hands. They never stilled, not as she questioned him and not as he replied. It was the hands that gave him away. They searched on for whatever it was he was looking for and they had quickened as soon as she entered the room. The whole situation was oddly not right and she felt a little queasy at the whole thing. His words were completely unconvincing. She let him hide behind them anyway.

She wasn't sure what business Sherlock had with New Scotland Yard. He certainly wasn't employed there. He wasn't the murderer obviously. A murdered wouldn't look for his victim's body in a morgue. She didn't know what Sherlock was but he wasn't a criminal either. That coat he'd left folded neatly to the side screamed money. He could be some sort of consultant maybe.

"Yes. Well. Is there anything you need?" she managed.

He smirked as he bent his head back down and she felt her embarrassment to the tips of her toes. That had not come out the way she'd planned.

"Coffee. Two sugars," he requested without looking back up, dismissing her.

Molly turned and fled, her cheeks warm and flushed with so many emotions it was hard to tell which should win. When she'd returned with a coffee a few minutes later he was already gone.

"Right then," she muttered, binning the coffee before she returned to her autopsy. Her nausea returned as she stared down at Mr. Jenkons and his once symmetrical face. Where his left eye should have been was a gaping hole of tissue.


	2. Chapter 2

The first time Sherlock had called her Molly was when he'd interrupted her shopping at Tesco. She'd been standing by the freezer trying to choose between strawberry or vanilla. It had been a long week at Bart's and she seldom indulged. She deserved to go home and cuddle up with Toby and a big bowl of ice cream.

"Molly? Molly Hooper?" asked a silky voice behind her. Every hair on her arm stood up at attention, as if they were drawn to the sound of him speaking. Molly let the freezer door close, ice cream forgotten. It shut with a quiet hiss and she turned around.

His eyes were earnest, his eyebrows raised in surprise. This time it was his fingers that betrayed him. They tapped against his leg in some complicated rhythm. She doubted he was unaware he was doing it. She thought it must be more of an outlet for all the thoughts and emotions he was covering up with his _"fancy meeting you here"_ façade. It was like his mind was somewhere beyond this conversation and the two cells he needed to project himself into her reality were a mere fraction of his total brain power.

She didn't know what scared her more – being so insignificant or the thought of what would happen if he turned his entire attention to her. What must it be like to have his complete focus, to have those eyes burning into you? So she said nothing and his smile dropped and he began to look annoyed instead.

Around them baskets squeaked and people talked either on their phones or to each other. People put boxes and cans and sometimes fresh fruit or veggies into their baskets. Molly shook herself from her thoughts and picked up her small bag of groceries. He must think she was dense. She probably still wore her startled look and that wasn't going to change. His presence was unnerving.

He must have understood something of what she was feeling because he drew back into himself and away from her personal space, giving her the space to breath. When he opened his mouth again his words were softer and more careful.

"I prefer vanilla myself," he said.

"What?" she squeaked.

She'd been so caught up in her own internal dialogue, hearing the alarm bells ringing in her head, that she'd forgotten what she was even doing in the freezer section. Molly stared at him. It was her favorite flavor, but she was sure he already knew that.

"Are you headed home?" he asked.

She noted he wasn't carrying a bag or basket. Whatever had brought him to Tesco it wasn't ice cream.

"Yes," she managed.

She should have dropped her bag and run in the opposite direction at this point. This strange man had no business knowing her favorite flavor or when she did her shopping. Something primal was demanding she get away by any means necessary. Instead she took a deep breath and looked at Sherlock, really looked.

There was confidence, yes. That was easy to see. There was also that intensity he carried around with him everywhere. He probably even fell asleep with it, trying to shape his dreams to his will. And behind all of that there was a hint of uncertainty. About her, about what she might say or do. He was a man that made his living deducing motive and predicting behavior. Most of the time he could do the same with her. But sometimes – not often, but sometimes – she managed to surprise him.

She thought of every time he'd shown up at Bart's in the middle of the night, almost desperate for answers to a problem only he could see. She thought of his sensitive experiments left on her countertops because he trusted her not to touch them. He had the brain of a scientist but his research was his alone, not something he cared to share with the world.

He was passionate about his work, dedicated to finding the truth. For him there was nothing else, maybe no one else. He never mentioned family and she'd never heard him talk about friends. Greg certainly didn't regard him as anything more than a colleague. Molly realized she might be the closest thing he had to a companion.

"Did you need to get into Bart's?" she finally asked.

Sherlock's brows shot up again, this time in real surprise. He gave her the smallest of smiles, the one where only one side of his mouth turned up and there was a shadow of a dimple at his cheek. She thought it might be the only genuine thing about him, those rare smiles.

"If you don't mind," he replied.

"Sure, let me buy my things. I'll skip the ice cream if we're going to Bart's," she said. He watched her struggle through the chip-and-PIN, standing there in his great overcoat while people gave him looks out of the corners of their eyes.

He hailed a cab and she put her bag on the seat between them like a buffer. He didn't speak so neither did she. The silence was uncomfortable and awkward. He didn't seem to care. She decided not to as well.

"Have a good night," she said as the door closed behind him. The cab had already left. She walked down the street towards the tube. When she got home she planned to take a long hot bath and Toby wasn't invited.


	3. Chapter 3

The first time Sherlock had brought her a packet of crisps was one night while she was waiting for the tube. She hadn't planned to end up uncomfortable and in the dark. It was just what happened when she had to work late. On top of it all she was starving. The cafeteria had been as unappetizing and horrid as always and she knew her stomach couldn't take that kind of abuse. The rank smell of lukewarm pizza spinning around under a heat lamp only made her stomach cramp more, and not with hunger.

She stood on the tube platform, alone except for several homeless men who lounged against the walls on the benches. None of them had approached her yet. Maybe it was obvious she didn't have any spare change from the sad state of her clothing. She never wore nice things on her way to work and these clothes had seen better days. They didn't approach her but they looked. They considered. They smoked. She hated the tube after dark, just hated it.

As alert as she felt he still managed to take her by surprise. One minute the platform was empty, the next he was there. He unceremoniously handed her a packet of crisps from one of the deep pockets of his coat, which she quickly opened and devoured. She simply loved chips, the way they were sweet but salty and crunched in her mouth. Whenever she went on a diet it was the crisps that spoiled it. She couldn't give them up.

"I can't go back tonight," she finally said without looking at him.

"I know, I was just there. Closed for a monthly deep cleaning. Bothersome. It was perfectly clean before," he muttered.

"Hospital protocol," Molly said. "You could have sent a text. I would have told you."

Sherlock glowered at the rails in front of him. There were a great many things he could predict. The hospital's erratic cleaning schedule was not one of them, Molly thought. As far as a text, he'd never sent her one, not in the year she'd known him.

"You don't normally travel on the tube," she noted. "Couldn't get a cab?"

"There's an appallingly small amount of cabs at this time of night and even less are running by Bart's."

They boarded together and Sherlock immediately made for a seat at the back. Molly sat down in the middle of the carriage and tried not to stare. It was a quiet ride and not the kind of quiet that's companionable and comfortable. When they reached her stop she glanced over at Sherlock. He was staring out the window but his eyes moved to her reflection, watching without watching.

"Thanks again, for the crisps. See you tomorrow?" she asked. There was a long pause where he said nothing. Typical

It wasn't until she quickly stepped out onto the platform and door began to close did she hear his reply.

"Goodnight Molly."


	4. Chapter 4

The first time she stepped foot into Sherlock's first floor flat it looked as if a paper bomb had exploded. There were papers taped or tacked to every wall. Sheets of paper littered the ground, rested on furniture, or piled together in small volcanoes on the floors. A book was open on the coffee table and Sherlock had made notes in the margins. His scrawl was messy and difficult to read, almost like a child's first attempts to learn cursive writing.

She looked in the kitchen but all she found were petri dishes full of bacteria colonies and a microscope.

"Sherlock?" she called. The air was still and she could see dust particles in the stream of sunlight that was peeking through the curtains. She had known before she called that he wasn't here. She couldn't wait long if she wanted to be able to leave Bart's at a decent hour tonight. There was a pile of bodies waiting for her back at the morgue. She held the address Sherlock had jotted down for her with both hands and waited. And waited.

Finally she couldn't take it anymore. The door hadn't been locked surely that meant she could come inside to wait. After an hour she was entitled to ease her boredom. Molly went exploring. It was something she would never do at a friend's home. Sherlock didn't quite count as a friend since the relationship was somewhat one sided. He only talked to her when he needed something and friendship was a give and take. It didn't matter to Sherlock that she needed her own personal space. So it shouldn't matter to him that she had decided to invade his instead.

The kitchen drawers held syringes and tweezers instead of silverware. The cabinets were full of beakers and pipets and glassware and no dishes. She moved to the fridge, her hand resting against the handle. She took a deep breath and opened the door. One gallon of milk, expired. Take away boxes of obviously forgotten foods. And a bag of maggots. She shuddered and closed the fridge with one foot, reluctant to touch the handle of the door again.

The bathroom was surprisingly clean. The sink had been scrubbed and the room smelled like lavender. She couldn't imagine Sherlock buying a plug-in air freshner, but there it was. Her fingers traced the outline of the medicine cabinet before she opened it. Bottles of percocet , a suture kit, bandages, and surprisingly, condoms. That seemed an odd place to keep them. She pulled out the box and turned it around. Expired. There were two condoms missing.

"Found anything interesting?" a smooth voice said behind her. Molly felt that familiar flush move across her face. She slowly turned, box still in hand. Sherlock plucked it from her fingers and returned it to the cabinet.

"For an experiment," was all he said, leaning back against the door frame and folding his arms across his chest. He didn't seem annoyed at all.

Molly felt something rise up inside her. It was hot and angry and made her mouth pucker. It wasn't jealously exactly, more of a recognition of how little she knew of him and how much he seemed to know about her, and what that really meant for her. It meant she was pining.

Molly glanced down at his fingers. They were still. It didn't mean he wasn't lying. The gleam in his eyes and the way he raised one eyebrow told her that he knew exactly what she was thinking. Sure enough, he began tapping out some code with one finger against his forearm.

"You asked me to come. So here I am," she said, her eyes tracing the lines of his face.

"I need you to take some cultures to Bart's and give them to Mike. I'm much too busy to do it myself. I need to think."

And with that he flung himself dramatically onto the couch and steepled his hands together. Molly was not impressed.

"Your flat is almost walking distance to Bart's," Molly said.

"Excellent deduction Molly. That means you'll be there in no time at all if you take the tube. Off you pop," he said.

Molly found herself standing outside his flat with very little idea how she got there. She had wanted to say yes, and that was the problem. She was eager to please and he knew it. With a sigh she tucked the box full of cultures under one arm and set out.


	5. Chapter 5

The first time Molly realized she and Sherlock were friends was also the first time she yelled at him.

He would insist on pushing every limit in his path, regardless of what it left behind. He had no boundaries, no sense of decency. He leaned over her to read her reports, his breath in her ear. He must have felt the way her body suddenly went stiff but he didn't move. Her discomfort didn't register on his radar or he dismissed it as unimportant. She stepped away from that lanky body and back into her own personal space. She didn't have time for this.

"Back in a jiff," she called as she left. The family scheduled to view the body was waiting in the lobby. There were tissues and red eyes and a small sliver of hope beneath it all. It was her job to crush that hope, to make death – once so distant and foreign – a sudden reality. Which is why it made it so much worse when they all walked in to find Sherlock meticulously shaving the head.

Molly was able to block the view, mostly with her body. She moved forward and the family stepped backwards.

"It seems there's an autopsy in progress. If you could please just wait here a moment," she said with a timid smile. The family looked so dazed this probably didn't register as unusual with them. "I'll be right back. Just, wait here please."

She closed the doors carefully behind her and prayed no one tried to look through the small windows.

"How on Earth does this help you find her murder?" Molly asked, shaking with emotion. She grabbed her razor from his hands and with a yank removed its cord out of the wall.

"Post-mortem hair growth," Sherlock said and she gave a little laugh.

"That's ridiculous and you know it. It had to be _her_ head. Not one of the other cadavers," Molly asked, furious.

"I needed to test for the presence of opioids," he said.

How did people not see through this? He gave the answer that was easiest to believe instead of actual facts. He only needed a few strands for drug testing. He had shaved the head for one reason and one reason only, and he wasn't going to admit it to her. Wasn't going to admit he was wrong.

"Ten minutes Sherlock. All I needed was ten more minutes. You could have waited. What am I supposed to tell the family?"

Sherlock opened his mouth and then paused, his eyes reading something in the tightness of her lips and the anger in her eyes.

"Tell them the truth. It was vital to catching her killer," he finally said.

She didn't want to deal with this. She pointed to the doors.

"Out! Get out!" she snarled.

"But-"

"I mean it Sherlock. If you ever want access again you…Will. Get. Out."

She sniffled to herself, trying to hold back her tears as she plugged the razor back in. She carefully shaved the rest of the hair off then quickly cleaned it up.

In the end she explained to the family that it was part of the autopsy. And in a way it was. The autopsy was to find the cause of death and if anyone could do that it was Sherlock. She just wished he would have asked her.

She watched the clock on the wall slowly count down her hours at work. At the end of her shift she sent him a message. She knew what he was looking for of course. She was a pathologist.

No bruising on head. Head injury unlikely cause of death. –MH

Is there bruising on the back of the neck? –SH

Molly hadn't looked. She pulled out the victim from the slab and pulled at the sheet until she could flip her over. She leaned down, peering at the neck. There, subtle and mostly yellow in color. Definitely not from fingers. There was no evidence of asphyxiation.

Yes. –MH

Molly waited for a volley of questions he needed her to answer. When none came she rubbed at her tired eyes before she sent another text. She understood what he was trying to do. She really did. So she should only do what any good friend would and forgive him. He was doing his best. They were all doing their best. And she needed him to understand that it was good enough for her. He was good enough.

Come down now if you need to. It's fine. –MH

On my way. I'll need a fresh cadaver. –SH

I'll finish the autopsy. -MH

Twenty minutes later he pushed open the doors of the morgue and practically danced back inside. The show off.

"I was right!" he said, looking indecently gleeful.

"Course you were," Molly said, giving him a timid smile.

When she left Sherlock he was talking animatedly to Inspector Lestrade. She gave them both a small wave and went home for the night.


	6. Chapter 6

Molly sat up in her bed, the darkness of the room filling her eyes. Her heart was still racing and she could feel it beating all the way to her temples. She let herself fall into the comfort of her familiar surroundings. Here was her bed, the soft duvet pooling around her lap. The window was open a crack to let in the chill damp air and her curtains were stirring gently with the current. And Tobby was curled up at the foot of the bed, fast asleep.

It was the first time Molly had dreamed of Sherlock. She'd been doing some lab work when he came up behind her. In her dream his hands were gentle and warm, palms sliding across her wrists as he guided the pipet she was holding. His entire length had been pushed up against her back, his hands sliding up her arms, his breath warm against her neck. He had to know what he was doing, she had thought. Maybe he didn't. Maybe he was oblivious to his effect on her. He didn't understand personal space. This was just Sherlock being Sherlock and nothing more.

Her body betrayed her, pushing back against him, writhing under his touch. She had closed her eyes and all senses turned to that mouth. His lips were so close without touching her skin. A whisper of a promise she wasn't sure he was making. She wanted to turn around but she was frozen. It was only a dream. It still rendered her completely powerless.

Now in the pale bit of light that was the dawn, she realized the truth. She was attracted to Sherlock. And it wasn't just his gray-blue eyes or the tight purple shirt he favored. She was in trouble, because she was attracted to his mind. What he deemed as _"the work"_ she found fascinating and not morbid at all. It was his and his alone, and yet he'd let her see bits and pieces. It was the thing he held most dear. He had shared that with her. He trusted her. Surely that meant…something.

"You will ask him out, Molly Hooper. All he can do is say no. Or pretend not to understand. Tomorrow missy," she told herself.

She looked at the light outside her window and realized tomorrow was already here. She sighed and swung her legs out of bed. Toby finally noticed she was up and yowled for his breakfast. When Molly left her flat it was with a tube of lipstick packed into her handbag.

Sherlock was also up early it seemed. Her phone already had a text and she wasn't even off the tube.

Need fresh body. Urgent. –SH

Molly didn't bother replying. He knew she'd have everything ready for him. It was less than an hour later that he showed up in the morgue. She'd barely had time to find the right corpse – someone without a family coming in to identify or view, someone Sherlock could experiment on without consequence. That was something only she could give him.

"How fresh?" he asked as he strode through the door. She was distracted by his fingers and their graceful ease, the way they quickly unwrapped his scarf from around his neck. His coat was dumped onto a countertop and when he straightened he had a riding crop in his hands. Molly stared at it, then at the hand that grasped it, then to the eyes of the man that held it. She took a deep breath.

"Just in. Sixty seven. Natural causes. He used to work here. I knew him. He was nice," she babbled, her eyes dropping once again to the riding crop.

Then she was watching him from the observation room, flinching with each blow to the back of Mr. Woodman, ex-security-guard. Every strike was a violent reminder of her of her dream. He was passionate, angry even, as he hit the corpse again and again. It made her feel warm all over like she was coming down with a cold. It was fantastic.

She grabbed her small purse and pulled out a mirror. She wasn't good with make-up but a little lipstick would go a long way without having to dress up the rest of her face. She left the bag sitting in the observation room and went to join him.

"Bad day was it?"

He ignored her even as he asked her to text him the results. She could do that. He knew she would follow his instructions to the letter. _Ask him Molly, ask him now_, said a voice inside her head.

"I was wondering…maybe later when you're finished…"

His eyes narrowed as he studied her face, examining her with as much attention he normally gave a puzzling case.

"You're wearing lipstick. You weren't wearing lipstick before," he interrupted.

Molly flushed and muttered something about refreshing it before she tried again.

"I was wondering if you'd like to have coffee with me," she said. She started in surprise. That had come out remarkably calm and reasonable. Good on her then.

"Black. Two sugars. I'll be upstairs." And then he was gone before she could take a breath to explain. So it was reaction number two then. Pretend to misunderstand her intentions. That was in a way its own answer. He wasn't interested. They were friends. She wasn't sure what hurt more, his refusal to acknowledge her request or the fact that she was still going to have to work by his side, except now he would know her feelings for him.

"Okay," she said to herself and went to the toilet. She looked at her own sad reflection in the mirror before she shook it off. It took a bit of vigorous scrubbing to remove all the red from her mouth. She splashed water on her face for good measure. Then she went to find Sherlock Holmes a cup of decent coffee. The nursing station upstairs was probably her best bet.


	7. Chapter 7

The first time Molly accidentally wrote Sherlock's name in her blog was the same day she'd met Jim for coffee. Sherlock had been his usual self, a little arrogant and a big flirt. She knew what he was doing and she almost told him to stop. In the end she couldn't. Even if he didn't mean the things he said, it was amazing to be the center of his attention, if only for a few brief moments.

It had hurt more tonight. He noticed things about her, like the way she wore her hair, without really seeing her. Which is why when Jim asked her to meet him in the canteen she said yes. Anything to quell the sudden disappointment in her chest. She needed a diversion and this was it.

Sherlock obviously needed a diversion as well and he was finding it in the company of John Watson. He seemed so ordinary but Sherlock obviously saw things she couldn't. She put them both out of her mind as she saw a nervous face looking around the canteen. He'd said her nose was cute. The thought made her grin and so when he saw her it was with her face lit up in a genuine smile.

"I got you a latte. I hope you don't mind," he said softly.

He stared at his own cup a little shyly. He was cute, in his own way. His hair was nice and he dressed well. He wasn't really her type. She wasn't sure it mattered. Maybe she needed a change.

"It's fine. Thank you so much. I didn't realize anyone read my blog. I write for myself mostly, get out the day's frustrations."

"You write about Sherlock often, so he must be pretty frustrating."

"You have no idea! Just today he came in to look at feet. I was on my way out to grab some dinner and next thing I know he's weaseling his way into looking at the feet of two murder victims," she complained.

"How did he do that?" Jim asked, taking a sip of his coffee. Molly remembered she had her own cup and quickly took a drink.

"He has his ways. He doesn't mean any of it really. All the flirting – it's just to get what he wants. I was thinking today about how hard it is to know someone so well, and they don't even care to get to know you," she sighed.

"Well I think he's an idiot," Jim said. Molly laughed out loud.

"He's really not. If you knew him… he's amazing, what he does. He calls it the Science of Deduction. It's like an art. He makes it look so easy but it's nothing you can do yourself. I thought we were friends but now he has John Watson and I barely see him, except when he needs something from me. I'm not important to him at all," she said.

"Like I said, an idiot. Look I need to get back or my manager will have a fit. It was lovely to meet you. Maybe we can do it again sometime?"

"That would be nice. Thank you for the coffee."

Molly didn't really think about Jim as the week progressed. He really wasn't her type. And then he had asked her out for another date and she had thought _why not_. Coffee had turned into lunch. Lunch had turned into a night at her flat, watching Glee with a bottle of white wine and Toby. He wasn't Sherlock but he was here, with her, laughing and enjoying her company – not pretending to like Sherlock.

Everything was going well until he'd asked to meet Sherlock.

"Why?" Molly had asked nervously.

"I'm a fan. That grid code was so interesting and I loved his website. Just to say hello. Please?" Jim asked.

What a disaster that had turned into. Sherlock was with John, of course, and his eyes barely flicked away from his microscope as she introduced Jim.

"Gay," he said flatly and Molly's heart sank. Because Sherlock was the most observant man on the planet, and if he said Jim was gay then it was probably true.

"What do you mean gay! We're together," she snapped, close to tears.

Then he'd made a comment about her weight, noticing her again without registering the way he was making her feel. It was all facts and figures for the great detective. He spoiled everything. He took and took and took and it still wasn't enough. She hurried back out of the lab but Jim was nowhere to be seen. Of course not.

Molly knew he wouldn't be waiting at the Fox so she didn't bother to go. Instead she sulked in front of the tube with a carton of ice cream. She didn't care if he was gay. Maybe she'd misunderstood their time together. It's not like they had actually done the deed. They had spent time together, but not much of it had been actual snogging. Maybe he was gay. It didn't change the fact that Sherlock had been completely callous.

The next day Molly went to work. The next week after that she called off. She spent her time walking around Regent's Park, shopping, and eating out. When she went back to the morgue she'd gained a total of five pounds. And who cared? She hadn't got a boyfriend and it didn't matter what Sherlock thought because he wasn't interested.


	8. Chapter 8

The first time Molly allowed herself a sliver of hope that Sherlock might actually be interested in her was on her birthday. She was a fall baby, new life born as the world outside began to slowly die and head towards winter. She'd always loved the quiet change from summer to autumn. It was subtle at first. Cooler evenings and a gradual lessening of days, the sun slipping over the horizon earlier and earlier. Then the leaves began to turn, bright oranges and yellows littering the grass and walkways of Reagent's Park. It was on that day that she ran into Sherlock as she headed towards St. Bart's. He fell in step besides her and they walked on together in easy company.

"It's your birthday," he finally said. Molly glanced at him from the corner of one eye. He wasn't prone to sentiment. John must have told him.

"Yes," she answered, shifting her bag from one shoulder to the other.

He pulled out a small box from his overcoat without stopping, one wrist flicking towards her to proffer the gift. She was beginning to doubt their meeting today was accidental. Molly gingerly took the box with two hands, and then tucked it into her purse. Sherlock raised one eyebrow at her.

"You aren't going to open it," he said. _Genius deduction that_, she thought.

"I don't want to be analyzed based on how I react. It doesn't matter what the gift is, or whether or not I like it," she replied.

Let him wrap his mighty brain around that. But Sherlock didn't seem flustered. He shrugged and they walked on. Molly felt her lips twitching.

"So thank you. I appreciate the gesture," she said.

He parted ways when they came to the laboratory and Molly continued to the women's locker room. Her fingers reached into her purse where they lingered over the unopened box. She was curious but what stayed her hand was how much she was enjoying the anticipation. It was going to be a long day and this was just the thing to get her through it. Whatever was in that tiny package she knew she'd love it because it was from him. She couldn't imagine him choosing anything she wouldn't like. He'd known her a long time – long enough to glean the information that he needed to choose a gift. It's not that they had talked all that much. He just had a way of gathering in details and fitting them together until they made sense.

She ran one finger along the smooth corners of the box. Maybe she would never open it. There was a place on her nightstand for her clock, a lamp, and occasionally a good book. She could tuck it in between them, a constant reminder of all she longed for. She couldn't have him but she could have this memento of him. And wasn't that better than anything that might be inside?

Unless it was a present that held more meaning than friendship.

What if this gesture was an overture to something bigger?

Her teeth tugged at her bottom lip as she considered her options. Molly shook herself from her thoughts. She didn't have time for this right now. The box went back into her locker and was out of her mind for a better part of the morning. There was always a stack of things to do after the weekend, most of it paperwork. She kept a hot cup of coffee close by and got to work. She didn't even know Sherlock had come in until he jammed a report under her nose.

"Traced of ammonia!" he declared. She glanced down at the analysis and made a humming noise of agreement. Then she went back to signing documents and processing the billing codes for the autopsy from last week.

If John were here he'd be telling Sherlock how brilliant he was. Well Molly wasn't John and time had given her a perspective he didn't have. The façade Sherlock carried around with him had worn thin. She could see through to the man beneath. Sherlock craved praise and attention like it was a drug. He ignored his body's basic need to eat, to sleep, to give and take affection. He thought limiting himself led to greater clarity, as if his genius was impaired by even having a body. In Molly's opinion it was all sheer stubbornness. He was like a small child who couldn't have their toy. In Sherlock's case he wanted to exist in a corporeal state where his sole purpose was "the work". As if he didn't need the things that made him human.

Which is where the present came in. What was his motive? He never did anything for her unless he wanted something in return. Was it to ensure her continued cooperation so that he had access to the equipment he needed? Did he have plans to sabotage her work in some way and this was his way of apologizing in advance? Molly quickly glanced around to see if he was doing just that, but he had already left, taking his analysis with him. Probably off to New Scotland Yard.

When Molly went home that night she set the present on her bedside table. Maybe she would open it tomorrow. She turned off the light and watched the night grow old. The moon shone in through her window, illuminating everything with a faery glow. The box was paler than Sherlock's skin in its light. It had come from him and now a part of him was in her room, sharing her most intimate space. She turned over to face the opposite direction and snuggled down into the duvet. She wouldn't open it. Not tomorrow, not ever. Content with her decision she drifted off to sleep.


	9. Chapter 9

The first time Sherlock invited her to a social function was after he had successfully proven a man's innocence by the trace amounts of pesticide under his deceased friends nails. Molly rolled the corpse back into cold storage and they had both watched the door clang close with some finality. Then Sherlock's fingers weaved an intricate web across his phone as he typed, sending the DI that last bit of information he'd need to solve the case.

"So accidental exposure?" Molly asked.

"Suicide," Sherlock replied, then completely switched gears. "John insists on visiting Harry for Christmas," Sherlock said with a frown, not looking up from his phone.

Molly sat down on a stool and brushed stray hairs from her eyes.

"Well she is family. Everyone's got to visit family on the holidays," she said.

There was a long pause where Sherlock looked up to analyze the lines on her face, considering.

"I don't, not if I can help it," he replied, putting the phone back in his pocket. "Mycroft's simply unbearable and on the whole it's a tedious family affair. This visit with Harry is completely different. She'll pretend to be off the bottle and John will believe her, then it will fall to me to disabuse him of the notion. Even when all evidence points to the contrary, he insists she's 'cleaning up', as he puts it. In reality she has every inclination to return to her drinking once John's visit is over. Then it will only be a short time until John finds out and is once more in a cycle of self-blame and anger."

"Maybe if you went with him? You could point out all the signs so he would know before she opened her mouth that the things she said weren't true. It's just an idea," Molly murmured as she bent over her paperwork.

"He asked me to come along. And then I would have a viable reason not to attend Christmas in the county," Sherlock said, leaning against the counter and watching her. The little hairs on her neck stood up as he continued to stare.

"Where will you spend your Christmas? Not here I hope."

"I don't have any plans," Molly said absently as she rubbed at her stiff neck.

He left shortly after that and within a few minutes her phone beeped.

Christmas party tomorrow at 221b might be slightly bearable if you were to attend. Text John for details. - SH

Molly tried to tell herself the event was informal, that she wasn't getting a last minute invitation as some afterthought, or worse out of pity. Sherlock didn't know her well but he knew she never talked about her family or friends. She had no one to spend the evening with. Now they would probably all expect her to turn up in faded trousers and a baggy jumper, sipping quietly at her drink until it was time to go.

Not this time. Sherlock had invited her and it was her moment to shine.

Molly left the morgue early and hurried home. She pulled out her favorite black dress from the back of her closet and ran her fingers down the velvety material. She never wore it, never had any reason to. It had been an impulse buy and she'd almost taken it back the next day. But the sales lady had told her she looked radiant. Looking in the glass at her own reflection she had felt radiate. Her cheeks had flushed with color as she imagined Sherlock seeing her in this dress, those silver eyes traveling down her frame, analyzing, cataloguing everything about her. The black dress hugged her skin, accentuated the curves of her hips and breasts. What would he read in the turns and dips of her skin, or in the hair piled perfectly on the top of her head?

Molly wanted to surprise him, to do the unexpected. Of course he'd know right away what she was doing even if he didn't really understand why. She wondered if he'd ever held anyone close, had let his hands roam a willing body, his mouth taste the sweetness of another. Surely no one his age could be inexperienced.

The thing was, he acted like it was all so new to him. It was as if he'd watched some horrible romance film and was now acting it out with the people around him. He expected his words would have an effect because those same words worked for other people. Well Sherlock wasn't those other people. And when he flirted he wasn't himself. It came across quite odd actually, and it only worked on her because she was already infatuated. She knew him too well to take it seriously, even though she enjoyed the attention

Molly hung the dress up and put it back into the closet. That was sorted then. All she needed was to find the perfect present and she already had something in mind. She'd seen the nicotine patches on his arms when he rolled up his sleeves at the lab. She'd also seen a crumpled cigarette pack in the garbage later that day. He wasn't trying to quit then. He was using the patches to stimulate his brain, then smoking the cigarettes because he wanted to. Well, they all had their faults. It wasn't the worst think he did to his body. He was almost abusive to himself. He spent late hours at the lab until the circles under his eyes were dark purple bruises. He would sway as he stood up, dizzy from hunger. And still he would insist on withholding sleep and food from himself. Then he'd go have a smoke.

Her gift might be a little antiquated, she knew. Yet she confidently went to the smoke shop she had found on the internet, the one that specialized in vintage pipes, and found him a beautiful Calabash one.

"When was this made?" she asked the proprietor.

"1895, it's engraved on the bottom there," he said.

"It's lovely," she said. "How much?"

He gave her a once over, taking in her grungy pants and faded shirt, then smiled.

"For you? 50 pounds," he offered, like it was the most generous thing he'd done in his entire life.

"20," Molly said firmly, pressing her lips into a tight frown.

"I could do 40, seeing as you're such a lovely lady," he returned.

Molly watched the way his eyes squinted at the pipe then darted back to her.

"I doubt you paid more than 10," Molly said.

The man gave a guilty start.

"More than 5," Molly amended. "I'll give you 15."

"20?" the man asked hopefully.

Molly put her money on the counter and placed the pipe carefully into the leather box.

"Pleasure doing business with you," she smiled. The rest of the shopping was a breeze. A new teacup for John (Sherlock had used the previous one to culture mold spores), a set of hair pins with little cats on them for Mrs. Hudson, and freshly roasted coffee beans for Greg. By the time she finished wrapping the gifts and getting ready herself it was well past 8 and she was running late. That was alright, better way to make an entrance, she thought boldly.


	10. Chapter 10

The sign on the door of 221 instructed her to 'come right in', written in John's messy doctors scrawl. She lugged her bags up the stairs, feeling considerably warmer than she had outside. The air was so chilly she almost regretted wearing the dress.

"Having our Christmas drinkies then?" she asked, setting down her things.

Sherlock didn't even glance her way and her heart sunk a little.

"No stopping them apparently," he muttered under his breath and she felt her lips turn up in a smile.

Molly let her coat drop. From the corner of her eye she saw Greg's mouth drop. Even John stood admiring her. Sherlock ignored her completely. Molly made small talk with Mrs. Hudson and ignored him as well.

"How's the hip?" Molly asked Mrs. Hudson.

"Oh it's atrocious, thanks for asking," she replied.

"I've seen much worse. But then I do post-mortems," she said lightly. There was an awkward pause before Sherlock broke the silence.

"Don't make jokes Molly," Sherlock said over his shoulder, shooting her a small smile. He was amused even if no one else was, just like she always giggled at his deductions when most people got annoyed. They both had the same sense of humor like that, a little dark and twisted. Not surprising considering their occupations. Sometimes it felt like the only human thing they shared.

"No, sorry," she said softly and accepted a glass of wine from Greg.

Then there was more small talk until Molly could die from it. She only wanted to talk to one person and Sherlock was deliberately not meeting her eyes as he deduced everyone in the room. This was a far cry from his normal reaction around her. The only thing that was different was her dress and the care she'd put into her hair and makeup. Just because she didn't chose to make herself up every day didn't mean she was an amateur. So what was the problem?

"I see you've got a new boyfriend Molly, and you're serious about him," Sherlock said, finally looking at her, careful to keep his gaze fixed on a point just over her left shoulder.

"What? Sorry what?" she asked, and then it struck her. The way he avoided her, the tone of his voice - she couldn't be wrong. Sherlock was upset with her and he was upset because he thought she was seeing someone. This was the first time she'd ever seen him acting jealous.

"In fact, you're seeing him this very night and giving him a gift," he said, deliberately keeping his voice light. It still came off as an accusation, like something that had been boiling away from below his surface was breaking off and threatening to come to life.

"Take a day off!" John called from the couch.

Greg looked from Molly to Sherlock and tried to intervene.

"Sherlock have a drink," he said, but it was only a half hearted suggestion.

"Oh come on! Surely you've all seen the present at the top of the bag. Perfectly wrapped with a bow. All the others are slapdash at best. Must be someone special then. Shade of red echoes with the lipstick. Either a subconscious association or one that she's trying to encourage," he was busy deducing, avoiding her as he laid down the devastation. Molly barely heard him beyond the suddenly fast beating of her heart and the roaring in her ears. Everyone stared at her, not Sherlock, making it that much more humiliating.

"Either way, Molly Hooper has love on her mind. The fact that she's serious about him is clear from the fact that she's giving him a gift at all." He had grabbed the present and given it a little shake, as if he could deduce what was inside. "That all suggests long-term hopes, however forlorn. And that she's seeing him tonight is evident from the make-up and what she's wearing. Obviously trying to compensate for the size of her mouth and… breasts."

At this last statement Molly's heart dropped to the floor. Jealous or not that was cruel and spiteful. It wasn't something that she deserved to hear from him, especially not in front of his only friends. They were all staring in shock but Molly managed to find her voice.

"You always say such horrible things. Every time. Always. Always…"

She clutched at the glass of wine and stared at the floor, willing herself not to cry. Of all the possible scenarios of this evening she had played in her mind, this was not one of them. She wanted to snatch the gift out of his hands and hurl it down below into the street. She wanted to melt like a puddle into the floor. How wrong she'd been, how wrong. He wasn't interested in her at all.

Sherlock was staring down at the package as if seeing it for the first time. He would know before he even opened it that it was picked special for him, that she had strong feelings for him. There was no end of her humiliation. Now she regretted her impulse to buy him something, to buy him a gift that might have some meaning to him, that he would appreicate all the more because it was from her.

Sherlock turned as if to go, to seek refuge away from the room and her big sad eyes and this ruined evening. Then he straightened his shoulders and turned back around, as if steeling himself for something difficult.

"I am sorry. Forgive me. Merry Christmas, Molly Hooper," he said quietly and he leaned in to kiss her cheek. It was a true apology she knew, because it had been so difficult a thing for him. So she accepted it as best she could.

"Thank you," he whispered quietly in her ear, mouth almost pressed to he cheek, where no one could hear. "You never opened your gift," he said softly.

"No," she said simply.

"Then I shan't open mine either."

It sounded like a promise and another apology. That was a step in the right direction, even if it had been a painful one.


	11. Chapter 11

The first time Molly met Irene was right after Sherlock had identified her dead body.

Molly was alone in the coldness of the morgue, processing the paperwork needed to move the body out of her workspace and into a more appropriate location, such as a grave or furnace or anywhere that made this no longer her problem.

Then the two doors behind her were pushed open followed by the sound of heels clacking against the hard floor.

"Ms. Hooper. Molly. May I call you Molly?" a woman's voice asked.

Molly made a slow turn and moved her eyes over the woman's face, then down her body. She glanced back at the corpse.

"You're her," Molly said.

"I'm dead you mean. I'd like to keep it that way for now. I just popped in to make sure everything is in order," Irene said.

Molly tapped her pen against her lip and studied the woman before her. Irene didn't seem any different than the women Molly knew. She had the easy confidence of someone who is beautiful, and the self-assurance of someone used to getting her own way.

"What did you need from me?" Molly asked.

Irene walked in a slow circuit around the autopsy table, fingers lightly brushing the smooth surface.

"An exit ticket. Too many people want me dead but I'm not ready to die. I need to disappear for a while. This body is perfect except for one thing," Irene said.

"Dental records," Molly mused. "Those aren't so easy to fake."

"No, and I don't have much time. This game Sherlock and I are playing is almost over. I'd like to think he has some chance of winning. He can't do that unless I give him more time."

Molly peeled off her gloves then rubbed at her neck with one hand. It was almost midnight and she was ready to find her bed and live in it until next Tuesday. The woman closed the space between them and offered her hand.

"Irene. Irene Adler," she said, and closed the space between them until Molly could hardly move without brushing up against her. Molly cleared her throat and stepped away.

"I know who you are. Why does Sherlock need to think you aren't alive?" Molly asked.

"So that my employer will believe I'm dead as well. Sherlock needs to be appropriately motivated, not distracted. All his energy will turn to this case, the one he should be paying attention to."

Irene was in her space again, overwhelming her senses. If Irene were a man, Molly would be ready to defend her personal area. Somehow Ms. Adler made that difficult, effortlessly easing past the normal physical boundaries Molly preferred. Just like Sherlock. Molly blushed and could feel the heat radiating across her cheeks and nose. Irene gave her a soft smile.

That was intentional, Molly realized. Irene was trying to keep her off guard, drawing her attention away from the thing she wanted, as if Molly had already agreed to forge the dental records and the rest of this was insurance.

"If you want my help then you can ask for it. Even Sherlock will ask for my help if he needs it. Don't ask for Sherlock, ask for yourself. He can protect himself but he can't protect you, so just ask," Molly said.

Irene laughed softly to herself and Molly's blush spread to her ears. The way Irene moved in and out of the space around Molly reminded her so much of Sherlock. And Irene was sharp, no doubt about it. Using Sherlock as leverage for a favor he probably wouldn't grant her even if he could.

"Please Molly won't you do him this favor?" Irene begged softly, intense eyes on Molly.

Of course she would. She would do anything for him – even if it meant he got hurt.


	12. Chapter 12

The first time Sherlock realized Molly could see right through him was during a case. There was a body on a gurney, bloated and blue with cold. His lips were coated with a fine white froth and although she would need to do an autopsy to confirm her findings, it would appear to be a dry drowning. She pushed down gently on the chest and no water was expelled. It was a good indicator that she was correct, even if she needed to do the autopsy to confirm it.

"Well?" Sherlock asked impatiently.

"How much time from when he jumped off the bridge to when he was pulled out of the water?" she asked.

"I'd say no more than 3 minutes," he replied.

"Salt water then? It would have to be salt water. You can smell it on his clothes."

She waited for Sherlock to slap on a pair of nitrile gloves and join her in her search. Instead he stood there quietly, almost as if he were pouting.

"Where's John?" she asked.

"Out with some woman he's hoping to get off with. I sent him a text but I believe he's turned off his phone."

Molly made a humming noise as she explored the head of the corpse for what she was looking for. She searched gingerly about the scalp until her fingers found a small lump near the base of the skull.

"Friend of yours?" she joked.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and picked up one hand of the victim. The skin of his fingers was wrinkled like prunes.

"What about this then? He wasn't in the water long enough for vasoconstriction." he said, his eyes accusing as they waited for her to answer.

Sherlock spun around and ruffled his hair with his fingers, as if that would stimulate his brain. Where others might see his anger or take his state of mind personally, Molly saw only someone who was frustrated and desperate for answers. The case couldn't move forward until he had more facts. And there was something more.

"It's not your fault," she said softly.

"I know that!" he snapped.

"Well sometimes it's good to hear it from another person."

Sherlock turned around and stuffed his hands into the pockets of his coat, not meeting her eyes.

"AIDS or cystic fibrosis," she told him. "Those are the most likely culprits. Either one could explain the swiftness of his death. He already had compromised lungs. I don't think that lump on his head contributed at all. It's several days old."

She waited for his eyes to light up and for him to suddenly depart with the swirl of his overcoat. Instead he paused a moment, eyes once more traveling over the body of the deceased man.

"But you already knew that," she said softly. "So why come to me at all?"

Sherlock was looking at her now, his head cocked to one side, those eyes mirroring the workings of his brain.

"Why do you think?" he returned.

Molly bit her lip as she considered. He had a good working relationship with most of NSY since John had become his flatmate. There were exceptions, she knew, but nothing that should stand in the way of him pursuing the answers he needed, the answer they all needed. Then there was the other option, that he had come to her out of some need to see her or have her echo his own findings. Neither of those were the truth however.

"You want me to ring up Greg and give him my findings," she said.

"Not Lestrade, Dimmock. He's holding up this investigation by questioning my every word. It's taking twice as long as it would with Lestrade and in the meantime the evidence is being destroyed by Anderson and his bumbling," Sherlock snarled.

"I'll do it," Molly replied.

Sherlock stopped his pacing and his eyes found hers and held them.

"You will?"

"I understand. I'll take care of it," she said. "Go on. I know you have other things you need to be doing."

Sherlock searched her face and she had no idea what he was hoping to find. He must have found something because he gave her a nod and hurried back out of the morgue.

"Idiot," Molly said under her breath, and she wasn't sure if she meant him or herself.


	13. Chapter 13

The first time Sherlock had kissed Molly it was "for a case".

He didn't stride into the morgue, doors swishing shut behind him as he demanded her lips. Nor had he followed her to her flat on some late night and invaded her personal space. He hadn't even shown up at the pub and asked. Instead he'd sent her a text.

Need to catalogue physical response to oral stimulus. –SH

Molly almost dropped her phone as her hands trembled slightly with the implication of what he might by saying. She managed to type out a reply and hit send without overthinking it.

Is that your way of asking if you can kiss me? –MH

For science. –SH

Molly giggled into her sleeve as her cheeks warmed. What was she supposed to say to that? The answer was always yes when he asked her for anything. She would be perfectly content to sacrifice normalcy for the sake of some experiment if it meant those luscious lips would be finding her own.

Molly? –SH

Yes. -MH

They arranged to meet at Baker Street and as her day wound down she ran out of excuses not to leave the morgue. She was ridiculously nervous and her stomach was churning so much she'd had to skip lunch.

"Okay missy, let's finish up this paperwork and get out of here."

Her phone chimed and she lunged over her desk to pick it up.

Experiment delayed, presence required at crime scene. –SH

Okay. –MH

She wasn't quite sure if she was relieved or disappointed. Either way she found his sudden change of plans suspicious. There could be a case. There could also be no case, but a brooding figure with a shock of curly hair torturing his violin as he reconsidered his offer.

A week passed and he didn't mention it again, not even when he dropped by to examine a body. She decided he either didn't need the data or had changed his mind, which is why she was taken completely by surprise when he appeared in Reagent's Park. She was sitting under a tree reading Harry Potter, one of her guilty pleasures, when his shadow had fallen over her.

"Molly," he said in that smooth baritone voice.

"Sherlock, what are you doing here? You could have sent a text – did you need me to key you into the labs?"

She was already standing up, brushing any dirt or grass from the back of her jacket. Sherlock reached across the space between them to pull her closer. Then her book slipped from her fingers, falling unnoticed onto the grass below. Sherlock's hands were working their way through her hair, pulling gently at the band that held her hair up in a ponytail. His face was so close, just a whisper from hers. Her hair fell down around her shoulders and his fingers brushed it out of her face.

The first press of his lips was gentle, careful. Then his mouth was sliding against hers, nudging hers open. One hand was holding the back of her head firmly in place. The other he slipped around her waist.

The world was spinning around her in flashes of color. Her eyes dropped closed and everything stopped. She no longer heard the children laughing as they skipped down the winding paths of the park. The water from the fountain was as quiet as a gentle rain. There was Sherlock and only Sherlock.

His teeth nibbled as her lower lip then he sucked at it gently. He turned her head just so and she felt his tongue scraping against hers almost playfully.

Then he was pulling away and the sounds around her slowly returned. She heard the motorway first, then the murmured conversations of the people nearest them. Molly could feel her cheeks flushing as Sherlock pulled her chin up with two fingers so he could examine her. She knew her lips would be swollen and flushed with color, her pupils blown wide, her pulse beating against her skin like hummingbird wings. She waited for him to make some comment about her state or to start deducing her on the spot.

Instead he buried his hands in his overcoat, turned on his heel, and walked away without a word.

Molly placed her fingers over her lips, tracing a pattern over them before collapsing back into the grass. Her book lay forgotten as she watched Sherlock's figure disappear from view. Around her the world went on, but for a brief moment everything had stopped.

She had thought a kiss from Sherlock would be clinical, precise to the point of premeditation. Instead it had felt impulsive and unrehearsed, as spontaneous as any kiss she'd ever had. Had that been surprise she'd seen in his own dark eyes as they moved apart?

Molly giggled into one arm, feeling giddy. Her phone gave it's familiar chime and she knew who it was before she opened the message.

That was most informative. –SH

And really, what could she say to that? Molly gave a happy sigh and tried to wipe the Cheshire grin from her face. It stayed with her the rest of the day.


	14. Chapter 14

Molly knew from John's constant stream of text messages that Sherlock had reached a new level of difficulty both as a flatmate and maybe even as a human being. It was amazing how far that friendship could stretch considering everything Sherlock put him through. Of course, someone might say the same about her relationship with him. She was ignored, dismissed, and at times ridiculed. Maybe it was the same with John and that's why he chose her to send his messages to.

There are mice heads in the toilet. In the toilet! –JW

Where's the part that's not the head? –MH

In the ice box. –JW

And then a few days later it was something else.

All of the wash is bright green. God knows what he left on the towels to make them do that. –JW

I'm sorry. Green towels aren't so bad right? Buy new pants though. -MH

Just noticed my socks are missing. All of them. -JW

Molly could just imagine Sherlock using layers of socks as pot holders, or dissolving them in different kinds of chemicals. She covered her mouth with one hand. No one should be giggling in the morgue.

I'm going for a pint and he's coming with me. There is nothing in this flat that he holds sacred and I can't leave him alone after last night. –JW

What did he do? –MH

Ask him yourself. You seem to be a frequent topic of conversation around here. Although, I don't know if I'd call it a conversation when he's hollering at his skull. –JW

Molly felt her lips turn up in a rather smug smile. She wasn't sure what kind of reaction the brief kiss had left on Sherlock, but it seemed there was something to it.

Red Lion. 19:00. -JW

7 it is. -MH

It would be the first time Molly had seen Sherlock in over two weeks. She had dubbed the whole kissing incident: the Great Mystery. Her head was full of whys. Why her? Why anyone? Why would he need to know how she reacted? Why now?

She waited only a moment before shooting a text message off to Greg. She hated being the third wheel and things were bound to be uncomfortable as Sherlock struggled through whatever emotions he was trying to tamp down. She was sure he would though. It was his forte and he'd met with much success in the years that she had known him. If anyone could suppress romantic feelings it would be Sherlock. Not that he was necessarily having romantic feelings, she reminded herself. It was difficult to gauge without seeing him again.

Greg was already there when she finally arrived. They were all waiting inside, Sherlock watching the front door with those eagle eyes. At the sight of her he turned around, elbows on the bar, his face a mask of indifference. Molly had known him far too long not to see through this ruse. Every angle of his body projected apathy. Tonight even his hands were still. He was trying very hard to mask any 'sentiment'. He only turned back around again because John smacked at his arm until he complied.

The pub was crowded, crawling with football fans watching the action on the large television screens in each corner. She managed to squeeze between the throng and make it over to the bar.

"Molls, glad you could make it!" Greg said and then leaned in for a light hug.

"Why would she neglect to come after inviting you? Oh please – don't give me that look. It's as obvious as the nose on your face. You would have turned down an invitation from John since you still have a plethora of paperwork to complete down at the Yard."

Sherlock's eyes flicked from Greg to Molly then back to Greg again.

"It's not like that Sherlock," Greg said.

"Your wife is away on holiday," Sherlock proclaimed.

"Go on then," Greg Lestrade said in a voice that was rough with anger.

Molly laughed out loud as Sherlock missed the sarcasm completely and continued his deduction. She quickly covered her mouth when Greg looked hurt.

"If you insist: you arrived within five minutes of John and I, implying that you were invited. However you are still wearing your clothing from this morning."

"Give it a rest," John groaned, burying his head in his arms on top of the bar.

"Coffee stain there, there, and a grease stain here at the elbow. Evidence of a fast lunch, eaten in a car. So, no time to change after work – came straight here. However, it can't be a case or none of us would be here, except Molly of course."

"No she wouldn't be here because I would send her a text. That's what people do Sherlock. They explain their actions to their friends. They don't turn all the towels in the flat green," John interrupted.

"Ergo, John invited Molly and Molly invited Graham-" Sherlock said

"Greg!" DI Lestrade snapped.

"And you came straight from work so you wouldn't miss her."

Greg only rolled his eyes and Molly certainly didn't want to get involved with… whatever this was between them so she also said nothing. Sherlock was one of the most observant people on the planet. If he thought Greg was hitting on her then he probably was. It didn't mean those feelings were reciprocated. Sherlock was making her life messy enough without adding Greg to the equation.

"So Molly what's your poison?" Greg asked.

"Doesn't matter. Pint of whatever John is having," she said.

Molly wasn't really paying attention to the conversation that followed. Instead she was studying Sherlock's face, at the lines than formed then disappeared as he talked or smiled. She looked at his eyebrows, drawn down now in concentration as he studied her. She saw his steady hands as he held his drink. And finally she saw his clothing, perfectly tailored, perfectly laundered and freshly pressed. There was a lull in conversation and Molly took the opportunity to lean in towards Sherlock, keeping her voice low.

"You've been avoiding me. I haven't seen you in the lab for ages," Molly said quietly.

He shifted his eyes to one side then shrugged.

"I've been busy," he said, not bothering to keep his voice down.

"Mate, you haven't had a case in two weeks," Greg interrupted.

"That's not the point!" Sherlock snapped. Molly moved closer to Sherlock, bending her head down as she whispered. His head had to follow hers to pick up what she said.

"It was just a kiss," Molly said and she stood back up, away from the feel of his soft breath against her waiting lips.

Molly watched Sherlock watching her and waited for him to break the silence. He nursed his drink and shot her glances when he thought she wasn't watching. Finally he put his glass down and turned to face her. His hands were in his trouser pockets.

"Let's step out for a few minutes," she suggested.

Outside the air was brisk and sky was full of stars. Sherlock looked up with her. With no moon lighting up the night sky the Milky Way was a line of bright stars stretching over the horizon.

"There was no case," she finally said.

"No," he replied.

"Did you like it?" she asked, biting the inside of her cheek to keep from giggling.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes and pursed his lips.

"Not enough data," he finally said.

He stepped in closer to Molly and she felt her heart skip a beat before resuming at a much faster pace.

"I'm not an experiment, Sherlock. I'm a person," she said, amazed at how her voice stayed steady while the blood rushed through her ears. Sherlock leaned in and planted a chaste kiss on her cheek, mimicking the one from Christmas.

"Thank you, Molly Hooper," he said softly. The door jingled as it shut behind him.

Molly stood out in the cold wondering what had just happened and what it could mean.


	15. Chapter 15

The first time Molly and Sherlock had gotten into a real argument, a public argument, was at a crime scene. The night was dark and the moon shone down on them like a swollen pearl. John had covered his eyes with one hand and was shaking his head – at her or at Sherlock she wasn't sure. It was damp and getting all the colder as they stood together in the winter's air.

"It's a bit obvious once you think of it, that's all I was saying," Molly said.

"Don't attempt to emulate me by your deductive reasoning. I don't have the time or stomach for it!" Sherlock spat.

"Sherlock! Sorry Molly, I really am," John said, glaring over at Sherlock. Sherlock did what he usually did and ignored him. "He's just in a rotten mood because Lestrade managed to catch the suspect before he did."

"It's alright. I'm used to it by now," Molly replied, giving John a half smile. She could see from the way his lips turned down and his sigh that he knew better. Of course it hurt her. Sherlock always said the cruelest things to her, like she deserved nothing better from him.

"Is there nothing I can say that will encourage your immediate departure?" Sherlock asked.

"You could say thank you."

"Thank you?"

"But I know you won't," she finished.

Thank you Molly for helping him catch a serial killer, for a night spent sleeping behind a trash bin that reeked so foul she could still smell it in her hair. For a million other times she'd done him a favor or lost sleep over him.

"You're a bit like my dad. He's dead now."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Don't attempt conversation. It's not your forte."

"What I meant was he was stubborn. He pretended he didn't care about anything or anyone. Except when he was dying. Then he begged us all to his bedside. Couldn't see enough of me. I held his hand when he died. It was sweet."

"I haven't begged you to my bedside," Sherlock smiled. It was an unpleasant smile. A smile that was meant to hurt and not comfort.

"Maybe not! But you've begged to get into the labs or for access to a body!"

Molly stopped suddenly. She realized she'd been yelling and now her breath was spilling out of her lungs as she tried to get herself back under control. She felt such righteousness in this moment. She was on the complete right side of something and that didn't happen often to anyone. Sherlock deserved this and she was going to give it to him.

But then her body betrayed her and her cheeks started to flush. She could feel herself emotionally backing away from the situation.

"I am… grateful," Sherlock said quietly and her heart rate sped up again. She was so angry she could feel it on her face.

"Don't you dare! No you aren't. You're nothing of the sort. Don't put on that act with me. I see right through you."

Sherlock reeled back, looking stunned.

"I'm sorry things didn't work out with Jim," he finally said. His voice was soft.

"Oh no you don't. How dare you! This has nothing to do with Jim!" Molly said.

John had walked away to talk with Greg and they were both watching from a safe distance as Sherlock and Molly worked through... something. Something big, something different. Molly wasn't sure what but she instinctually sensed it was still that kiss, that damn kiss. Weeks ago, almost months ago now. The kiss she dreamed about even before she fell asleep in bed. The kiss that made a mystery of a man even more so. She could almost feel his lips on hers once again and it made her want to open her mouth and taste that sweet promise. She shook her head, pulling herself away from her thoughts.

Molly shut out the night air, the curious faces behind them. And she stared at Sherlock hard, her eyes tracing the dark circles under his eyes, the lines at the corners of his eyes. He was clearly exhausted but it was more than that. There was a self-loathing that Molly recognized from the men who sometimes wandered into hospital from the streets they called home with arms covered in small dots like constellations. His pupils were pinpricks, his eyes a never ending silver of the moon.

"What is it?" she asked. "What are you on?"

"I don't know what you mean," Sherlock replied.

"Show me your arm then," she demanded.

John was already starting to walk back over and Sherlock glanced from him and back to Molly.

"Don't tell him," Sherlock murmured.

"I can't believe he hasn't noticed," Molly said.

Sherlock gave her a small almost apologetic shrug.

"One week. Then you come to Bart's and pee in a cup. You had better be clean. Or John won't be the only one I tell."

Sherlock gave her a curt nod.

"Figure this out Sherlock. For both of us," Molly said finally and walked away.

Over the next few weeks Molly checked her cellphone constantly for a message from Sherlock. The last few days were a whirlwind of paperwork, autopsies, and late night meetings with John and Sherlock. Sherlock took John everywhere with him in that time, as if John's presence could keep her questions locked up next to her heart, as if he know what she really felt for him. And here they were again, three souls sitting around a small table in the deserted break room while the night grew old between them.

He didn't meet her eyes. They roamed around the room as if he were searching for something. John didn't seem to notice.

"A serial killer obviously," Sherlock said to John.

"But the victims have nothing in common," John replied,

"A 43-year old school teacher; a 23-year old uni student, and a 33-year old Judo instructor," Sherlock said.

"How do you know he was a Judo instructor? The body only came in a few hours ago. They haven't even ID'd it yet," Molly said.

"His physique is that of an athlete, but his ankles are thick with extra muscle. There's only a few sports that cause such a build up. That leaves a limited number of options, but considering there was a dojo not fifty feet from where he was murdered. Add to that the late night and his leaving alone, it suggests he has some position at the Judo dojo. Hence, Judo instructor.

"Amazing," John answered while Molly tried not to roll her eyes. "That doesn't explain why he was targeted."

Molly saw the connection before John did and gave Sherlock a small smile. This time Sherlock smiled back, a quick upward turn of the lips that soon disappeared like a moon darting behind clouds thick with rain.

"Well then, they're all teachers. Does that mean his next victim will be a yoga instructor?" John asked.

"Perhaps. But it would need to be someone 53-years in age," Sherlock said.

When the hour grew so late even the moon seemed old and tired, Sherlock and John rose from their chairs. John was yawning and stretching his arms overhead.

"I'll join you in a moment," Sherlock told him.

"Right," John said, walking toward the door. He turned around at the door, his eyes flicking from Molly to Sherlock as his fingers pressed against the door, holding it slightly open. The he walked through, leaving Sherlock and Molly to stare awkwardly at one another's shoulders.

"I'm clean," he said softly.

And of course he was. He had a case after all.

"For how long?" she asked. Sherlock grimaced and ran a hand through his hair, making it stick up at odd angles. Molly wanted to reach over and feel that silky softness with her fingers. She held in the small sigh in her chest.

"I know addiction is a curse," Molly said. "But I refuse to let you come down on one of my slabs-"

She paused as she noticed a new gleam in his eyes. He'd let go of the conversation and something was happening between his two ears.

"You've had an idea - what is it?" Molly asked.

"It's brilliant!" Sherlock shouted at the corpses. This time Molly did sigh.

"What is?" she asked.

"Me - on a slab!"

"Sherlock, what are you going on about?" she asked.

"Ta!" he called, his back already turned from her.

"Sherlock!" she called but he was already past the double doors and hurrying down the hallway.

And what could she do, really? She could tell from those sharp piercing eyes that he was not taking any drugs. He had that energy, the energy that tasted purple and gold, shining from his skin as his brain moved and fired and made connections no one else could see.


	16. Chapter 16

The first time Sherlock paid her a compliment, the sky was the color of midnight. The sun had set only an hour ago but the air hung heavy with the smell of fire. The black smoke rolled over London and the stars hid behind it. London was burning with a brazenness which blotted out even the moon, her light a mere blot in the skies above.

"Is it him, do you think?" John asked. Molly blushed like a young girl, her face turning pink with embarrassment. How could she not know who John was talking about after all.

"Of course it's him," Sherlock bit back.

"He seemed so nice," Molly said nervously.

Sherlock made a disapproving humming noise that could have a been a statement about her intelligence, love life, or both. He turned up his coat collar and Molly dared a glance from beneath her lashes, taking in his pale face and unruly mop of curlse, even blacker for the darkness of the night around them. His mind was racing far ahead of their, to places he only understood. It was functioning at its peak, drawing connections with threads so thin and into a pattern, all with Jim Moriarty at its center.

There was no doubt in her mind he was clean now. Drugs were unnecessary when there was a case to unravel, if this counted as a case. It was something more as well, for whenever Sherlock spoke the name of his nemesis there was a countenance to his voice that suggested admiration.

"221, Tesco, New Scotland Yard, the clinic. I think someone's trying to send you a message," John said.

"I'll burn the heart out of you, he said. I didn't think he meant it so literally," Sherlock replied.

"Not very subtle," John answered.

Molly said nothing but worried at her fingers, placing her hand in her mouth and biting gently on the ends.

"So what next?" John asked.

Molly dropped her hand and spoke, her voice mousy and nervous and trying to run away before she said anything stupid.

"He know where my flat is and he hasn't touched it yet. He's been there, he knows it," she suggested.

Sherlock cocked his head to one side.

"Your flat is safe – as safe as any in London. Moriarty thinks you are of no value to me."

John cleared his throat carefully and they had a silent conversation before Sherlock continued.

"What I meant to say was you're safe, Molly."

"Well even if that's true, if there's anything you need, just ask," she said.

"What could he possibly need from you?" John asked.

"I don't know. He might… oh my god. It's so obvious!" she shouted, clasping her hands together like it was Christmas morning.

"What, what's obvious?" John asked.

Sherlock looked her up and down, eyes darting, searching.

"Of course!" he said, spinning around and laughing.

"Sherlock!" John demanded, still lost.

"Molly Hooper, Moriarty has misjudged you!" he said.

"You could say thank you," Molly muttered.

"Thank..you," Sherlock said and even if it came out awkwardly she took it and held it close to her heart.

"So…" John said.

"Barts! His next target is Barts. The place I'm present if I'm not at home."

"Your home away from home. Sometimes there's no distinction – body parts at Barts, body parts in the fridge. Maybe you should set up camp there. You never sleep anyway-"

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"John, please. This isn't the time for a domestic."

John backed away with his hands in the air.

"I am NOT gay."

Normally this would be where Molly departed, leaving the great detective and his blogger to consult with Greg, or run off into danger, or something equally as uninviting. I would be foolish, even dangerous to continue to involve herself in whatever was happening between Sherlock and Moriarty. And yet there he stood, a clever plan hatching in that electronic brain of his, a plan that might involve her. And she stayed, pulled to that darkness as helpless as a sacrificial lamb. She trusted Sherlock, even more than John might. John would question this next step, demanding an answer or explanation. Molly would follow him unconditionally, a testament to the feelings she hid even from herself.

"I know what we need to do," Sherlock said. Molly smiled.


	17. Chapter 17

This was the first time Molly had shared a cab with Sherlock. Usually she took the tube – less expensive - or walked if she was in the mood.

Molly was hurried into the cab with the gentle press of Sherlock's fingers against her back. She had pulled her scarf over her mouth to protect against the black soot in the air and she only unwound it when all the doors to the cab were tightly shut. Even she could still smell the charred stench that was London.

"Shouldn't we phone the police?" she asked.

"Not enough time. We need to get to Bart's before Moriarty and we don't need London's finest tipping him off," Sherlock replied.

"What's the plan then?" John asked from the front of the car. Sherlock's fingers were like a pianist as they flew over the keys of his phone. Molly watched the cab driver. What must he think of this conversation? If the cab drivers of London united, what kind of stories could they piece together about Mr. Sherlock Holmes?

"I don't have one yet," Sherlock replied and Molly hid her laugh between her hands while John eyed her suspiciously. Sherlock without a plan was like a hawk without feathers. He always had a plan, some motive driving his actions. He didn't bumble about with something as important as catching Moriarty. Decisions that appeared trivial were inherently necessary to move things forward in a predictable way – predictable to him anyway. Sherlock had a plan, she was sure. He just wasn't sharing it.

"Moriarty can't be going around lighting all these fires himself," John said.

"No," Sherlock agreed.

"So he's… what? Got some network of arsonists on call?"

"Doubtful. The timing of the fires suggests no more than 3 people working in tandem. The size of the fires indicates they started with an initial explosion, most likely set off with a remote device," Sherlock said.

"But Bart's is different," Molly said when John didn't reply.

Sherlock didn't answer but turned his head away to look out the window. His fingers tapped a rhythm against his leg until Molly had to turn away. She'd known him too long not to recognize the nervous twitch and it was making her stomach whirl about with uncertainty.

They came in Bart's through the back, in an employee entrance that few at the hospital bothered to use. At one time Molly had grown tired of Sherlock's constant requests to gain entry to the morgue or the labs and had given him a copy of her badge. This led to Sherlock trying to open every restricted door in the hospital until Mike had found him out and threatened to cut off all access. He hadn't returned her badge and Molly suspected he sometimes came here in the middle of the night to do _the work_.

She could be wrong. After all he still sent her texts when he needed her help or something from the morgue. If he still had her badge he'd simply use it. Why bother to go through her at all? She was probably wrong. Mike had most likely confiscated the thing ages ago.

Molly stepped up to the next door, the one with _restricted access_ in bold red letters over its front, and swiped the badge over the reader. The door opened with a soft click.

Sherlock paused as they came inside, eyes scanning the half lit empty corridor.

John was already easing his gun from his pants. He held it in front of him with cold dispassion. His eyes were no longer soft or creased with laughter. Molly had never understood Sherlock's relationship with John. Seeing those eyes turn to glass made something click into place. John was dangerous.

"If we get separated meet on the roof," Sherlock told her.

"Stop, you!" John suddenly shouted and Molly could make out a shadow moving amidst the other shadows.

"Excuse me, I'm a little lost," came a female voice from the darkness. There was the sound of heels clacking against the linoleum flooring as she came forward. As she moved the lights turned on, lighting her way down the corridor.

She wore dress pants and a dark red jacket. Pinned to one side was a floral brooch. Her hands played with her purse nervously as she eyed John.

"Is that a gun?" she asked, and Molly could swear she heard amusement in that voice, but the figure before them remained small and unimposing.

"Against the wall," John said, never lowering the weapon.

The woman's startled eyes flew to John. Then she turned and ran.

"Don't let her get away!" Sherlock shouted as John gave pursuit.

Sherlock blocked her way with one arm as she made to follow.

"I need you to wait in the morgue," he said.

"Then why bring me at all?" Molly asked.

Sherlock paused and hung his head slightly, choosing his words carefully.

"Molly, if I wasn't everything you thought I was, everything I thought I was, would you still help me?"

"What do you need?" she asked.

"I need you."

Those three words echoed inside her heart, banging painfully against her chest. She managed to walk on her own, leading the way to the place she had worked for the last 8 years. They were good years, most of them, although she often wondered if she was destined to spend another 8 years here. Her little life used to bring her contentment. Sometimes, especially since the escapade with Jim, it hurt a little instead.

Molly let herself be led to the morgue, the double doors closing behind them both.

"Stay here," Sherlock said softly and then he was gone.

One hour later Molly was reduced to pacing and very near to tears. She couldn't take the waiting anymore. She was torn between scrubbing up to get some work done and finding out where John and Sherlock were. He had said meet on the roof. This didn't quite count as getting separated since he had left her here but she couldn't take the anxious crawling feeling on her skin. She needed to make sure Sherlock was safe. When the doors swung open she felt so euphoric she spun around in a circle.

"Thank goodness, I…" Molly paused, letting her brain catch up with her heart. This was not the dark clad figure she hoped to see. This was not a blond one either.

"Jim," Molly breathed.

"Did you miss me?" he asked with a small gentle smile. He was chewing gun and the smacking of his lips seemed almost grotesque. He put his hands in his trouser pockets and stepped closer to her.

"It smells in here," he said. "You're probably used to it. The smell of the decomposing bodies. You smell like it to. You leave here and ride the tube and people don't sit next to you because you smell like death."

He took a deep breath through his nose then rolled his eyes.

"I don't mind so much," she said. And because it was the truth Jim could only shrug his shoulders.

"Time to go," Jim said, holding the door open for her.

"Why should I go with you? You don't even have a gun!" Molly protested.

"You'll come because if you don't I'll find you. And I'll burn you. You and your cat and that stupid flat. All of it, burning," he snarled.

Molly ducked her head to hide her tears and walked down the hallway to the elevator.

"Clever girl," Moriarty praised. "You've already figured out where we're going. I think they're already waiting for me. Let's go and see."


End file.
